o brother where art thou
by TolkienGirl
Summary: There are three ways Dean can figure out Christmas without a calendar. (A semi-companion fic to my Winchesters-loving-Lord-of-the-Rings, "we are truth-speakers", but can be read separately. Basically, Dean goes to see FoTR alone in theaters for Sam's first Christmas away at Stanford. But that wasn't how they'd planned it. Genfic, angst. For Mythopoeia, who prompted the idea.)


**A/N: The Fellowship trailer would have been in theaters around the time O Brother Where Art Thou came out. So...**

 _"You will find a fortune, though it will not be the one you seek. But first... first you must travel a long and difficult road, a road fraught with peril."_

 _January 2001_

"That's hogwash, Sam. No such thing as a devil's crossroads."

"The lore's there, dude. Bobby had a book, crossroads have been significant since the eleventh century. It wasn't just something manufactured for _Faust_."

"What the hell is a Faust, Sam? Look, You find a crossroads and an idiot fixin' to sell their soul and I'll pay you twenty bucks."

"Better watch what kind of road you're standing on when you make that kind of deal," Sam says, eyes sparkling with humor, and Dean punches him lightly on the arm.

Their breath is fogging the air. It's after eleven o'clock, and they're a little drunk because the general store was on the way back from the movie theater and Sam's now old enough to pass for twenty-one out in the open. By this logic, Dean had concluded that holiday beers were in order.

Sam was the one who'd suggested a movie in the first place— _I'm still off from school, Dean, and Dad's coming home tomorrow—_ and so they sat in the swayback folding seats to watch George Clooney hunt for treasure.

It's times like this when Dean is happy. He doesn't ask for a lot. He'd ask for a little more—he'd ask for that golden afternoon in August, when Sam was eight, and they went fishing in Michigan. It wasn't normal—Dad told them ghost stories that Dean knew were true and Sammy didn't—but it was _them_. Together. Nobody fighting or cussing each other out, no tensions rising. Dean can't have that anymore, very much. But he'll take the time with Sam when he can get it.

Sam is musing as they walk home, lips pinched together and a little blue with cold, though there's a flush of alcohol on his cheeks. He's got a stocking cap jammed down on his head, pushing his hair into his eyes.

"So."

"Yeah?"

Sam grins. "Onto the really important part. Man, that trailer for the _Fellowship_?"

Dean swears reverently. "Yeah. Pretty awesome. Can't wait." He intones in McKellen's enunciated baritone, " _Keep it secret, keep it safe_."

"Everything we ever wanted," Sam murmurs. "Can't believe we have to wait till December…" His eyebrows scrunch up then, like he's trying to work something out.

But Dean's too happy, too stupid happy in the cold night air, and he doesn't stop to wonder what Sam's thinking about.

 _December 2001_

There are three ways Dean can figure out Christmas without a calendar. In upstate New York, at least, it's snapping cold. Second, everyone's trying to out-tacky each other with blinking lights and red-and-white plywood Santas in the green-brown quilted yards that haven't yet been softened by a snowfall. And third, most telling of all—Dad's drinking keeps up the steady ratchet it's been rising from since the second of November, and if he isn't hunting, he's staring at someone who isn't there. Two someones, now, maybe. And Dean does enough staring himself on that score, enough, "Hey, Sa—" before he bites it off, slicing that thin line of hope between his teeth.

Oh, yeah, Christmas is coming.

Dean hunches his shoulders under his jacket, glowers at the blinking lights of Podunkville or whatever, and keeps walking.

There is a movie theater, a post office, and a general store. Dean has seen nearly every general store, Mom n' Pop store, whatever-the-locals-call-them-store in the universe. They all smell the same, like cheap plastic wrap and dust and stale sandwiches.

Paper says December 21st. Dean grabs one, flashes the girl at the counter a smile that's all and only teeth, completely hollow. His hand goes to the phone in his pocket. He could call.

He could always call. But then again, he couldn't.

Outside, the ground is hard. No snow means no slush, and the soles of Dean's boots are starting to split so he's got to be practical. Can't be wishing for winter wonderlands, anymore than he can be wishing for California in December.

 _Christmas break_. The hollow that was in his smile a moment ago drops into his throat, his stomach.

There's no way in hell, or more importantly, on earth, that Sam is coming home for Christmas.

Dean needs to stop hoping.

Dad's laid up in a mobile home on the outskirts of the town. But not really laid up, just—yeah. He's drunk. They killed the ghouls as a Christmas gift that Podunkville won't thank them for, and one raked Dad's leg pretty hard, but he's stumped on worse.

Dean doesn't know what to do when he isn't chasing after Dad's lead.

He pauses in front of the movie theater, a little bored, and then he's stock still. He can't believe he forgot.

 _Can't believe we have to wait till December…_

Well, it's December.

Only, Sam didn't wait.

…

Dean checks in on Dad—sleeping it off—and then checks his pockets. He's got a ten and a few nickels. He should know better than to spend it, but dammit. Dammit it all, it's Christmas without Sam, and Dean has very little to live for.

And if he doesn't buck up and go see this movie on his own, he'll just keep hoping Sam shows up to see it with him.

…

"Hey."

The girl at the General Store stops in the middle of tugging off her dull blue smock. "Hey there." Dark curly hair, brown eyes. Cute, not hot. Sam would roll his eyes at the materialistic distinction, but Dean doesn't think it's an insult, and anyway, Sam's not here.

"You off for the evening?"

"Yeah," she says. Her name-tag says Bea.

Dean doesn't know what he's doing or why he's even doing it. If he was looking to get laid, he'd go to a bar. But he's not, and so his usual charm feels tired and directionless. "I'm going to see a movie," he says. "Want to go?"

She smiles. She has a dimple in her left cheek; it gives her a lopsided appeal. "Why not?" He's not exactly a stranger; she's probably seen him around town for a few weeks. He's good-looking and polite, and it's the kind of town where people aren't overly cautious.

Considering the ghouls of late, Dean thinks, they probably should be. But nobody ever considers the ghouls.

…

"Lord of the Rings?" Bea says, drawing up short in front of the theater. The more Dean looks at her, the prettier he finds her, but he's still not in the mood tonight.

Right now, he's suddenly uncomfortable. Of course, it's a nerd movie—albeit one that's already sweeping the box office—and this was only ever going to work with Sa—

"If you don't want to, that's fine," he says, awkward, and feeling a hell of a lot younger than twenty-two. But then, he hasn't had anyone to be older than, lately.

"Oh, no." Her eyes sparkle, and he realizes, shamefully relieved, that he'd misunderstood her. "I've been wanting to see this. My brothers went without me and I was so pissed."

"You have brothers?"

"Two. They're in high-school."

"Ah. Cool." His little brother was in high-school too, until he wasn't. Dean remembers Sam's graduation day, highest grades in the class but ineligible to be valedictorian because they hadn't been in that town long enough. Still, it had been a half-golden day.

Now, Dean thinks, it's been a long time since he was stupidly happy.

…

 _Much that once was is lost._

 _I would have gone with you to the end. Into the very fires of Mordor._

 _I'm going to Mordor alone._

 _I know you are! And I'm coming with you!_

…

It's the barest of comforts having Bea beside him, occasionally exclaiming and laughing and making little gasps of delight. But Dean wants Sam, wants Sam's bony elbow jolting him in the ribs, wants Sam going, " _Dude, that wasn't in the book_ —" so Dean can tell him to shut the hell up, then blab on the next second about _dude, how freakin' amazing is the Balrog?_

But instead, Dean just clenches the armrest next to him the whole time, to steady himself. To stop him from turning, from looking for someone whose magic trick took him far, far away.

 _I don't think I'll be coming back. In fact I mean not to._

…

"Awesome movie," Bea says, in the lamplight outside the theater. "Thanks for taking me."

"No problem," Dean says. He should be charming, a cigarette hanging from his lips or something, ghosting the air with phantom warmth. He should slide his hands under the edge of her jacket, wrap his arms around her waist, find her mouth with his.

Instead he stands there, all of eleven again, all of the age he was when he used to read to Sam in the long nights when Dad just didn't come home.

It starts to snow, and they say goodnight.

…

 _I'm coming with you._

Dean feels the sting of falling flakes on his face. It's only been months, but he can still remember when it had only been months after Mom, and the closeness didn't make things any better.

He supposes that he could have gone with Sam. Haunted the Palo Alto area, gotten some grunt job while his nerd brother went after the school dream. Dean could have made enough money for both of them. Maybe Dad would miss them enough in combination, head out that way too—

But the fellowship is broken.


End file.
